


Father's Day

by rillrill



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Comeplay, Daddy Kink, M/M, QPQVerse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"So, weekend after next," Washington says, changing the subject as they walk along the waterfront. "I thought we might spend it together. A little break for the two of us. Mount Vernon, maybe?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Alex thinks it over, picturing the calendar in his mind. Then he snorts with not-quite-derisive laughter. "Isn't that weekend Father's Day?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Washington cocks a brow, giving him a knowing look. "Is it?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Oh my God," Alex says. He's doubled over laughing before he can force out the words. "You're such a freak, old man."</i>
</p><p>The aftermath of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Day

**Author's Note:**

> You sinners deserved this.
> 
> Happy Father's Day.

Alex is perusing the greeting cards at CVS while he waits for his Ambien prescription to be filled. It’s never his first choice to be trapped in an unengaging space with nothing constructive to do for any period of time, but he's wandered the aisles dutifully, said yes to a box of Kind bars (the sea salt and dark chocolate ones Martha gives him from her bulk boxes, they're basically just candy and she refuses to touch them, even on her cheat days). The drugstore's an okay place to kill time, all things considered.  
  
He flips through a couple magazines. Jennifer Lawrence is on the cover of Vogue again and he kind of huffs, thinks about buying it on principle because he can't stop getting into spats on Reddit about public figures' rights to privacy. Skims the magazine itself; puts it back after a feature about someone named Tinsley Mortimer redecorating a yacht. Fuck that.  
  
Down the personal care aisle. He doesn't need shampoo or conditioner. George has taken to buying that stuff for him lately, which he can't say he minds. The one he's using now is kind of lavender-scented, but a manly lavender, which he didn't know was even a thing. Kind of sharp. George said something about sandalwood. Whatever.  
  
He's exhausted the rest of the store so he ends up in the greeting cards again. _Don't Forget Dad!_   _Father's Day is June 19th!_ cautions a little sign, and he cocks a brow, zeroes in on the cards beneath it. Mostly themed around beers and burgers, these outsized parodic qualities of manliness that he finds so weird. Performative manliness, that's the phrase John sometimes uses to describe them — kind of dumb, Alex decides, especially considering that George is probably the greatest specimen of a man he knows, and he doesn't have to joke about steaks and blowjobs in mixed company to establish that. Maybe it's a heterosexual thing. Straight men are weird.  
  
It's mostly those and some real sappy stuff, from-your-grown-children, from-your-wife, whatever, but then Alex knocks an ugly blue card with a sailboat on it out of the way and reveals something truly hideous: shiny in shades of pink and lavender, a big cartoon crown on the front. In big glittery letters beneath: _So long as you're my daddy, I'll always be your princess!_ Grins to himself. Almost too fucking perfect. George is gonna shit himself. Or just walk right into Chesapeake Bay and never speak to him again ever, but either way, the reaction will have been worth it.  
  
He opens it cautiously, but it doesn't start playing a song or anything; just says _Happy Father's Day_ in purple sparkles. He blind-grabs for the matching envelope almost immediately, brings the card and the Kind bars up to the pharmacy counter and dodges the pharmacist's wry look of mild interest as he checks out. "It's an inside joke," Alex says, trying hard not to over-explain. "I wouldn't get that for my actual dad. If I had one. It's, uh, a joke."  
  
The pharmacist shrugs. Alex cringes. Worth it still, hopefully.  
  
  
The week passes without much incident. All quiet on the Jeffersonian and Madisonian front, which worries Alex more than he'd like to admit, but, George assures him, the evidence is in more than capable hands, and Deb isn't one to allow herself to be scooped but she's also not going to publish a story without having done her due diligence. So Alex relaxes, forces himself to relax into his new position. Having an office, now, is his largest concern, and Burr’s old office fits him perfectly. It's almost novel, really. He's never had a space like this — it's more cramped than George and Lafayette's offices, but that's fair; he can work with that.  
  
(His desk is a mess by the end of his first week, but he tries, anyway, to keep it neat.)  
  
When Friday finally rolls around, Congress isn't in session, and George waves the staff off early in the afternoon. Summer Fridays, he says, and nobody questions it; Lafayette and Adrienne have extravagant weekend plans anyway. They wait until the rest of the office has filed out, and then George slides into Alex's new office, rests a hand heavy on the back of Alex's neck. Squeezes down, just enough. "I think we should be good to head out," he says, and Alex hums happily as he turns off his computer.  
  
Traffic on the way out to Virginia is hell, but George doesn't seem stressed by it. "Martha and Eliza have booked a spa weekend in Annapolis," he comments. "We should have the place to ourselves all weekend."  
  
"Mm," Alex says. It's too humid out to roll down the windows but he's aching to feel some wind in his hair. A compromise, instead: he turns up the AC and positions the vent to blow straight at his face. George notices, because there is nothing he doesn't notice.  
  
"Are you warm?" He moves his hand to the AC dial. "We can turn it up more."  
  
"No, I'm fine," Alex says quickly. "Just faking a breeze. Y'know."  
  
George chuckles. "It's supposed to be a little more temperate tomorrow. The humidity is scheduled to break with this thunderstorm tonight, then sunshine all weekend. You know, with these cloud patterns, I wouldn't be surprised if we were in for a really big one tonight..."  
  
"Ah." Alex shrugs. "Let's not talk about the weather."  
  
"I find meteorology fascinating," George says dryly, and Alex snorts.  
  
"Of course you do, old man." He touches George's arm affectionately. "Whatever. Talk about whatever you want. It's, ah. 'Your weekend.'" Finger quotes. George huffs a laugh.  
  
"Damn right it is," he says, his voice a little deeper in its register as he reaches over to squeeze Alex's thigh. Alex, predictably, shivers a little. He's still not used to the things George can simply make his body do.  
  
  
When they pull into the drive at Mount Vernon, the lights are off throughout the house, and George nods approvingly. "All ours," he says, as they pull into the garage; Alex notes that Martha's Mercedes, her company car, is conspicuously missing. He follows George into the house through the garage, leading into the laundry room and then in through the kitchen. The more time he spends here, the easier it becomes to sense what this place was like in its original form. The grandeur of the historic house is evident, even with its modern renovations, ceding to the needs of the twenty-first century.  
  
They've scarcely gotten inside, set down their things in the hall, when there's a flash of lightning that makes the hairs on Alex's neck stand at attention. The crack of thunder that follows almost immediately after is loud and close by, and Alex can see George watching him as he tries not to cringe.  
  
"You don’t enjoy thunderstorms," George observes, almost wryly. Alex rakes fingers through his hair, annoyed.  
  
"I'm not afraid of them, if that’s what you’re implying," he says shortly. "They're not my favorite weather. I prefer not to be outside while they're happening." _Afraid I'll get struck by lightning_ , he's tempted to add, but thinks better of it; with his luck he knows it's downright likely to happen should he tempt fate. Not that he's superstitious. Just that — whatever.  
  
"Well, luckily we're very much inside now," says George, his tone still amused, but softening just a little. "Come. I'll make dinner. You go refresh. Take a shower. I'm sure you remember where the master bathroom is."  
  
"You're not joining me?" Alex frowns. A vague memory from Before the Islands flashes through his mind. Something about coconut mango shampoo and very soft words.  
  
George shrugs, shakes his head. "You go on ahead. I'll have dinner ready by the time you're done."  
  
Doubtful, Alex thinks, but says nothing. Their rhythm feels strange. They're off their game. He pops up on the balls of his feet to press a kiss to George's lips, and feels validated by the way one big hand splays across the small of his back, keeping him there as the kiss heats up. He finally pulls himself away with a little smirk, waving his fingers as he wanders off to the master suite.  
  
He takes his time in the shower anyway, washes his hair twice and uses a dollop of the fruity conditioner in the caddy. Dawdles, looking at the bottles there in the shower and sniffs at a few of them. One is unmistakably George's, a rich-smelling body wash in a sleek black bottle: it smells like wood and something vaguely spicy and clean. Alex pauses, then opens another bottle instead. Upon finding the contents to have a very pleasant, almost feminine scent, he slathers it all over himself. He likes the idea of smelling different, unique. Prepares himself thoroughly as well, making use of the bottle of organic raw coconut oil he finds in the corner; he's slick and ready inside and out by the time he turns off the shower and grabs a towel, which is warm. Heated rack, he finds, ostensibly connected to the shower. God _damn_ . Rich people. He'll never really be used to it.  
  
He's wearing boxers and a Duke t-shirt stolen from George's dresser when he sidles back into the main house. Damp hair bunned and leaving little drippy marks on his shoulders, making the heather grey charcoal. George kisses him softly on the forehead as he sets the table. "You smell nice," he observes, squeezing Alex’s ass softly with one hand. “Now go sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.”

 

* * *

  
  
George is understandably proud of his culinary skills on a normal day, but today, when he’s had time to prepare and impress, he’s simply _confident_ . The pasta comes out perfectly, not even close to overdone, and the homemade sauce with fresh tomatoes and pesto made with spinach and kale from the gardens makes Alex go for seconds. It’s with a contented sigh of happiness that they both lean back in their chairs after the meal, and George watches as Alex grins.  
  
“So,” Alex says. “This is what you had in mind, for Father’s Day. Blowing my mind with your perfect pasta sauce, or whatever.”  
  
George chuckles. “Is that all you think you’re in for?”  
  
“God, I hope not,” Alex laughs. He pauses, then cocks a brow. “I _really_ hope not.”  
  
Relief floods George’s chest. George smiles despite himself. "So you don't find it —" _Disturbing_ , his brain starts to say, but before he can change his phrasing Alex cuts him off.  
  
"Whatever it is, nope," he grins. "I thought that's why we were doing this whole weekend. Y'know. I actually —" And here it's Alexander's turn to flush a little, the tips of his ears turning very slightly crimson, and George watches with one brow cocked as he reaches for the messenger bag he'd dropped near the dining room table and rustles around in the pocket, looking for something. "It's kind of early, but, y'know. Just so we're on the same page."  
  
He slides an envelope across the table, and George opens it slowly, pulls out a card. It's a garish shade of lavender, with a crown embossed on the front, and as he slides it all the way out he reads aloud from the front: "So long as you're my daddy, I'll always be your princess." Glances back to Alex, who's smirking at him knowingly. "Clever."  
  
"Isn't it horrible?" Alex grins more openly now. "I had to. Don't read the inside yet, save that for Father's Day proper. But, y'know. Nah. I'm into -- all this. Just in case you needed a refresher."  
  
"Very well." George clears his throat, straightens his posture. "Why don't you make me a drink, then, princess? It's been a long week. I'd like to relax and unwind before you come at me with any nonsense." He watches Alex cautiously, but Alex only flushes a little pinker and nods.  
  
"What would you like?" he asks, moving back to the bar, and George clicks his tongue.  
  
"An old fashioned would be great," he says. "There're blood oranges there on the counter, you can use those instead of the others."  
  
"Of course, Daddy," Alex says, a sly smile twisting at the edges of his mouth, and he busies himself at the bar, mixing and pouring. George watches approvingly as he shakes the cocktail and strains it into one of the nice heavy highball glasses, garnishing it with a slice of blood orange. "You can have anything you want tonight," he says as he presents George with the glass. "I'll even make you dessert, a fruit salad, anything you want."  
  
"That's very kind of you, Alex, but I think I'd like something else for dessert," George says offhandedly as he accepts the glass. He notices, again, the way Alex's eyelashes flutter, the small sigh and oh that seem to shock through him, and he wonders — there's plenty he's discovered that Alex likes, loves, as a matter of fact. But there's just as much that he's yet to bring up, subjects and fantasies he hasn't quite broached, and he wonders —

"This is wonderful, Alex," he adds kindly as he takes another sip. Truthfully, it's a bit strong; he'll limit himself to the one. His tongue darts out playfully, and he licks along the rim of the glass where another cocktail might have necessitated salt or sugar. Alex knows of his predilections. George has never liked his drinks too sweet.

Alex licks his own lips, a little nervous, but with a knowing glint in his own eyes. "I'm gonna make myself one, then," he says, and returns to the kitchen.  
  
Dessert is quiet, casual. Alex seems to make an effort not to talk about work, bites his tongue whenever the subject seems to swing in that direction — a gesture George more than appreciates. Mount Vernon is his sanctum away from the dance of politics; there's a reason he keeps an apartment in the city. Privacy, and compartmentalization, have always been tantamount to peace of mind. Instead, Alex keeps up a running dialogue about the summer, his plans and ideas. "I know you have a pool here," he says as he chases Martha’s homemade honeycomb ice cream around his bowl with a spoon, "and just so you know, you're gonna have to drag me away from that. That's gonna be my whole summer, believe me."  
  
George laughs. "That's quite all right with me," he says, though in truth he'd like more to get away entirely. "You know, the August recess is coming up — I know Lafayette is getting married therein, but perhaps we could take some time out of town together as well. Maybe California? Redwoods and beaches?" He shrugs as Alex nods thoughtfully. "Think about it."  
  
"I will." Alex spoons up the last of his ice cream and sets down the silverware, his posture changing a little as he does, the look on his face growing slightly more impish. "That was amazing. Thank you for cooking. I’ll clean up, don’t worry."  
  
George laughs a little. "It won’t take long to rinse the dishes. Why don't you go wait for me in the bedroom? Get yourself nice and comfortable."  
  
Alex grins as he stands up from the table, bends to kiss George on the cheek as he makes his way around to the doorway. "Whatever you say," he says, and there's a little skip to his step as he makes his way down the hall. George watches him leave, puts the rest of the food away, loads the dishwasher. Enjoys a few moments of solitude. It has taken some getting used to, sharing his space with Alexander for these extended amounts of time. Not that he doesn't enjoy it, but it has always required more energy to be around another person than to be alone. Truthfully, though, he enjoys this just as much.  
  
When he walks across the threshold of his bedroom, he's taken only slightly aback; Alex has laid out there across the bed, reading something on his new Kindle and wearing nothing but the green panties George picked up for him on a whim, before that first trip to Annapolis. His hair, still damp, falls loose to his shoulders. His ass looks particularly cute — _cute_ , George huffs to himself, he can't believe he's become this person now — the way he's lying on his stomach. He looks up from the screen as George enters the room, biting his lip a little, and George sucks in a breath.  
  
"Hi, Daddy," he says, perhaps unnecessarily, but with just enough flirtation in his voice to make it cute. George exhales, then strides to the four-poster, picking up the Kindle and setting it aside on the nightstand before grabbing Alex's hips and pulling him, on all fours, to the edge of the bed. He leaves the panties on, slides them to the side as he presses kisses to Alex's pert ass.  
  
"Are you wearing these for me?" he murmurs, stubble scraping against skin as he dips his head a little lower, and he hears Alex moan. Wanton and open. George smiles. He'll never get tired of how responsive Alex is — he never holds back, even when he ought to keep silent, but here in the house, with just the two of them to hear it, he has no reason to.  
  
"Yes," George hears himself hiss as he dips his head lower, palming Alex's ass apart. "Let me hear how much you like it, baby boy."  
  
It's a gamble, perhaps, leaning on the Father's Day aspect of the weekend so hard. But if Alex has any misgivings, he certainly isn't making them know. He groans again as George grips the hem of his panties firmly in one hand, holding them well to the side as he dives in. Alex writhes against the first press of his tongue, hips bucking as he reaches down to fist his cock, and George reaches out with his own hand, slapping Alex's away before he can get more than a couple perfunctory strokes in over the emerald lace.  
  
"Not yet," he says sternly. "I'm going to come in my boy's pretty little ass, and them I'm going to eat it all back out of you, and then — and _only_ then — will you come. Remember, Alex? What day is it?"  
  
"Father's Day," Alex says sheepishly, muffled against the sheets, hips thrusting helplessly as he says it.  
  
"Fucking right," says George. And with that, he's unstoppable, a torrent of focus as he licks Alex sloppily, long strokes from his balls to the cleft of his ass and back down again. Alex breathes in sharply, doesn't hold back his whines and whimpers. Incredible, George thinks, as he stiffens his tongue and presses it against Alex's rim -- it slides in without much effort, and George tightens his grip on his boy's ass, and simply holds Alex still as he fucks his ass with stiffened, aching tongue. The tendon at the bottom of the muscle is sore already, yes, but he won't stop — not until he's satisfied —  
  
"Daddy!" Alex's body stiffens, spine straightening and then curling in upon itself. "Stop, stop, Daddy. Please."  
  
George pulls away, softening his grip on the globes of Alex's ass cheeks. "You okay?" he asks, in concern. It wasn't a _bad_ stop, but with the way Alex is hiding his face in the sheets —  
  
"I just, ugh." Alex's hips snap forward again, the motion appearing involuntary. "It feels too good when you do that."  
  
"Oh," George says, bemused. "Do you mean — "  
  
"I mean, I, uh, I might come," Alex answers, sounding almost bashful when he says it, and _fuck_ . If George's cock weren't already almost painfully hard, it certainly is now.  
  
"Okay," he says in response, instead of what he wants to say, which is to take back his previously-laid rules about orgasms and timing and tell Alex _You can come all over yourself, all over your pretty panties I bought you, sweet thing_ . He wants to change the rules but he knows how much Alex would object to this. How much his boy lives for a challenge, to prove he can meet and exceed whatever expectations are placed upon him. So he doesn't say it; just delivers a hard smack to the left side of Alex's ass, then the right. "You want me to fuck you now, then?"  
  
"Oh my God, yes," Alex says breathily, hurriedly, and all of George's restraint leaves him in that moment as he grabs at the hem of Alex's delicate green panties and rips them cleanly in two.  
  
Alex makes a noise at this that George can only describe as something between a shriek and a squeal. "Don't worry, baby," he assures him, balling up the scraps of expensive lace in one hand. "I'll buy you another pair just as pretty. Open your mouth for me, princess." He runs his thumb over the place where Alex's precome has soaked through the fabric, and as Alex obeys, George pushes the bundle of fabric into his mouth, filling it cleanly, the wet spot facing downward, just on the tip of his tongue.  
  
Alex flushes even more at this, more than George thought possible, but he doesn't flinch or move in any way that would signify objection. And so George reaches for the lube in the bedside drawer, drizzling his fingers in a copious amount — pushes two of them into Alex's hole, where his ass is held proudly aloft in anticipation.  
  
George is the one to groan in surprise this time — Alex's hole is slick and feels stretched already, and the little nod his boy gives him seems to confirm this. "You got yourself ready for me," George murmurs in benevolent amazement. "My good slut, always ready to take Daddy's cock. Aren't you, princess?"  
  
Alex nods, the panties in his mouth muffling his expression of assent, and George slides his fingers back out, slicking up his cock instead. He lays it, hot and throbbing and heavy and bare, against Alex's slick hole, and at first does nothing, content to fuck his cleft, the space between his cheeks. Alex, predictably, moans again, garbled fury.  
  
"Let me hear you beg for Daddy's cock," George says, and he hardly recognizes his own voice.  
  
He barely recognizes Alex's, either, muffled and inarticulate around the makeshift gag, but the words are evident: _please daddy, need your cock, please fuck my ass, I need you to fill me up, make me full_ —  
  
"Gonna fill you up so good with my come, baby," George growls, low in his throat as he lines up the head with Alex's hole, and as Alex moans again, he presses in, and —  
  
Fuck. It's perfect, a long slow slide, Alex hot and tight and so perfect around him -opening up and sheathing him like the fucking rock that housed Excalibur. _Fuck_ . George's fingers dig hard into Alex's hips. He might have bruises there, come tomorrow morning. George would be disappointed in himself if he didn't. He grips Alex harder.  
  
When he's seated inside Alex, his own hips still, but Alex moves. Alex can't stay still, even for a second. He starts to cant his hips forward, and George grips him harder, holding him steady.  
  
"I don't think so," he cautions. "You stay still. Let me fuck you. It's Daddy's Day, remember?"  
  
The sound Alex makes in response could only be properly characterized as a frustrated squeal, and with that, George pulls all the way out and slams back in, and then it's all over from there, all gone:  
  
He fucks into Alex, again and again, harder and harder, his pace quickly approaching pounding. And Alex does nothing but let's him, clutches onto the bedsheets and groans into the scrap of ruined lace filling his mouth, the fabric not quite enough to muffle all the words. Alex takes it, back arched, face heated and sweaty against the pillows, and George can't shut his mouth, can't stop talking for the life of him —  
  
"You feel so good, Alex, princess, baby boy, love how I fill you up, love how you take me — " George slams his hips harder, skin slapping against skin filling the room with an obscene off-beat tempo, and Alex moans, " — my beautiful boy, gorgeous beautiful boy, you're so slutty for me, so perfect, gonna fill you up — "  
  
"Please," shouts Alex around the gag, and George leans forward, tugs it from his lips and lets it fly across the room with the momentum of the pull --  
  
"Ask for my come, Alex. Ask for daddy's come."  
  
"Please, please," Alex chants, rhythmic with every thrust. "I want you to come inside me, daddy, fill me up and suck every last drop back out, I want you to claim me, inside and out, show me how much you own me, I'm all yours —"

"You're all mine," George agrees, as his balls start to tighten — Alex's hole clenching and releasing around him, clever boy —  
  
"Please give me your come, daddy, I want it so deep inside of me, because I'm yours, I'm so fucking full of your big perfect cock," Alex chants, and it's hearing those words, in that order, that sends George toppling over the edge.  
  
He comes, pulsing hot and long, inside Alex's fucked hole, and he lays his forehead against Alex's neck, draping himself over his sweaty back, as the aftershocks roll through him, Alex still clenching and releasing his softening cock, milking every bit of his release out of him.  
  
Alex rolls over, limp, onto his back as George pulls out. His eyes widen, and he licks his lips as he catches sight of Alex’s cock for the first time since they began — it’s hard and leaking, the head a painful-looking dark red, and again, George wants to change the rules, but he won’t. For Alex, he won’t.  
  
Instead, he flicks his eyes down to Alex’s hole instead — reddened and abused-looking, and delicious, a smear of George’s come trickling from the rim. He grabs at Alex’s thighs, takes one in either hand, and pushes them up and out of the way as he dives back in. “Don’t you dare come yet, baby boy,” George cautions him again, and Alex shivers but nods in assent.  
  
When George first ducks his head to lave his tongue over Alex’s hole, he’s met with a quivering sound, a soft hiss coming from between Alex’s teeth. He looks up. Alex looks as though he’s not certain whether he’s allowed to touch himself, hand hovering over — but not making contact with — his cock, ambivalent. George licks him again, a long broad stroke, and lets his gaze flick up to make eye contact with Alex. “Do you want to touch yourself?” he asks, almost casual, trying to hide the desperate _want_ that still bubbles up inside him. His own orgasm did nothing to quell that thirst.  
  
Alex nods, desperate. Begs, incoherent and wordless. He’s shaking with his thighs spread wide in George’s hands, as George pushes his tongue back inside him, lapping up his own come and feeling Alex tremble and quake. “Do you think you can come for me, like this?” George asks, and Alex nods again.  
  
His cock just fills one of George’s hands, and when George touches him he wails, pushing up into his grip, not quite firm enough to fuck it. But George can multitask. George has been through war and Senate filibusters; he can certainly concentrate enough to get Alex off in two ways at once.  
  
Hands and tongue, hands and tongue. He sets the rhythm, that Alex immediately breaks, bucking up into his grip while still, somehow, trying to drive down onto his tongue. The enthusiasm is almost enough to make George laugh — but instead, he doubles down. Alex bucks against him, his indistinguishable noises somewhere past begging, and it only takes a few more strokes before he shudders, and jerks, and comes into George’s hand, all over his stomach.  
  
George strokes him through it, drawing his head back up to watch Alex panting, his chest heaving as he comes back down to earth. He draws him up, close to his chest, and peppers kisses on his shoulders and neck and face and hairline, buries his face in his thick dark hair, still a little damp and smelling like the fruity shampoo Eliza left in the master shower once. Funny. He’ll have to remember to tell Alex where that shampoo came from.  
  
“This was really nice,” Alex says as they maneuver onto their sides, as George pulls him closer and splays a hand across his stomach, rubbing gently. “And we have the whole weekend to ourselves, right? I mean, I’ve got some work to get done, but—”  
  
“Ssh.” George kisses him again, the shell of his ear, and feels Alex still, shutting his mouth. He smiles. “You don’t have any work to get done until Monday. That’s an order, Alexander.”  
  
“Mm.” Alex draws up one of his hands, presses kisses to each of the knuckles. “Fine. By the way, I’m gonna make you breakfast in bed tomorrow. Or Sunday. Guess it depends.”  
  
“Try not to ruin the linens,” George says despite himself — he could just take out another set of sheets, but — and Alex looks up at him from the tangle of their embrace, throwing him a happy, contented, conspiratorial look that suggests no set of linens could possibly go unruined with the plans he’s already made.  
  
“Do you trust me?” Alex asks, and there’s a smirk and a twinkle in his eye as he says it, and George can’t help laughing.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then trust me,” Alex says. “Besides, I was a waiter for like, three years. I think I can manage not to drop a plate. That is…” He trails off, and smirks again. “Unless we don’t use plates at all.”  
  
George growls, the sound coming up from the bottom of his throat, guttural and wanting. It’s cheesy, and almost predictable, but it doesn’t matter. He pulls Alex closer, presses a hard, desperate kiss to the place just under his jaw that makes him whine. And he smiles.  
  
“I haven’t had a lot of good Father’s Day experiences,” Alex mutters into the crook of George’s arm, face pressed against his bicep. “But I feel like we might be able to change that this weekend.”  
  
“That’s more or less the intention,” says George, and Alex laughs, and George laughs with him. And he’s never been more content, here in his four-poster bed in Mount Vernon, his beautiful young man cuddled up against him, happily open and filthy and ready to be wrecked, as the thunderstorm outside rages on.  
  
“By the way,” he adds, “I loved your card. It’s terrible. I’ll keep it forever.”  
  
Alex laughs. “Good. I’m glad. It’s all yours, Daddy.”  
  
“ _You’re_ all mine.”  
  
“I thought that much was obvious.”


End file.
